


The Bed Song

by marryingthebed



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-02
Updated: 2013-02-02
Packaged: 2017-11-27 23:41:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/667803
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marryingthebed/pseuds/marryingthebed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Your angel whimpers in his sleep, and you know he is not dreaming of you.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Bed Song

**Author's Note:**

> So I wrote destiel and it turned out sad. (Based on The Bed Song by Amanda Palmer)

It’s for warmth, you tell yourself as he burrows into your shoulder. His nose is sharp, cold against your skin, but God, you can feel the shape of his mouth digging into your collarbone. Spend a moment fantasizing before he shifts, toes brushing your ankle, pulling you back to reality. 

Reality is this: a too-thin mattress, a broken heater, and a single flannel sleeping bag. Reality is an almost-angel’s fingers on your chest, digging into your t-shirt. 

All you’d have to do, you decide, is move your fingers up a few inches. Friends don’t stroke the backs of each others’ necks, do they? And he’d tilt his face upwards, maybe to stare at you in confusion. You allow yourself to picture it, just the outline of him visible in the dark. How he’d gasp when you pressed your mouth to his. 

But then everything else rushes back, the heaviness of Heaven and Hell and Purgatory coming to rest between the two of you, and you squeeze your eyes shut instead. 

Your angel whimpers in his sleep, and you know he is not dreaming of you. 

 

The next place is better, a heated apartment with a thicker mattress and a set of sheets that tug at your skin. At night you lie next to him and the space between you feels sharp, almost clinical. The people next door are fighting, the walls thin enough that you can determine it’s probably the boyfriend’s fault, the dick shouldn’t have left the restaurant in the first place. 

Your angel sighs, and you pretend that it is possible to pull him towards you, lick your way into his mouth and try to rival the couple next door for the title of Loudest Neighbors. He’d want to be quiet, of course he’d want to be quiet, blushing a little and mumbling something, probably an apology for his lack of experience. But it wouldn’t matter, you could pull him apart, just like you’ve pulled a million others apart in a thousand other small towns like this one. 

Only this time, it would be different. You don’t know how you know, but you do, the knowledge settling in your throat, your stomach, the tips of your fingers, until it feels like your entire body is heavy with it. 

The door to the apartment next door slams, you listen to the sound of high heels clicking down the hallway, and then you try to get some sleep. 

The fact that every morning you have to untangle yourself from him, the two of you having somehow migrated towards each other in the night, doesn’t seem to matter. 

 

The condo will be different. How could it not be? Just standing in the living room makes you feel clean, suburban. You know it couldn’t possibly be true, but it still feels like this place is safe, tiled bathroom floor and stainless steel kitchen immune to nightmares. 

You find yourself disproved the first night there, when he wakes up shivering, and you’re glad the realtor told you that the one bedroom would be more within your price range. Because this means you can hold him, nose buried in his hair, pretending not to notice that the part of your shirt that lines up with his eyes is wet. You hold him, and you tell yourself it’s to make sure that when the imaginary demons come for you, when you watch yourself turn into a monster for the umpteenth time, he’ll do the same for you.

And he does. 

But things at the condo are too different, the emptiness of it almost taking your breath away, as if your lack of a nuclear family is jumping up and down on your chest. He feels it too, makes a habit of staying out late, like he’s afraid of you. Of what you might do. Because you still imagine it, don’t you? His fingers tugging at your hair, how you would fumble with the buttons of his shirt. 

One night you fall asleep before he gets home, and when you wake up the next morning he’s curled up under a pile of blankets on the couch, and it’s like something inside of you breaks in two. 

When he leaves you feel old. He’s standing by the door, bags packed, biting his lip and apologizing. “I can’t,” he says, and you understand, because you can’t either, but it doesn’t give him the right to leave you in this house, with this bed that in a couple of weeks won’t even smell like him any more. 

“Cas,” you say, looking at his mouth, maybe because you don’t want to forget the shape of it, pressed into your skin a million years ago. 

And when you look up you realize he’s been watching you too, knows exactly what you’re thinking, maybe he has all along. And oh look, you’re breaking in half again. To rub salt in the wound you hear him say “I would’ve, Dean, if you’d asked.” Because it isn’t just you he’s looking at; his eyes are sweeping over your face like a lover’s, lingering over the same exact part that you always do, and Christ, this just hurts even worse, doesn’t it?

Your angel (he is still an angel to you, even though you have heard his stomach growl with hunger and watched the tiny strands of silver appear in his hair, because there is a sacredness about him that refuses to go away), he leaves you standing in the middle of a house you know you’re going to try to sell tomorrow, and he does not look back.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Bed Song](https://archiveofourown.org/works/670338) by [theweightofanother](https://archiveofourown.org/users/theweightofanother/pseuds/theweightofanother)




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